Reciprocity
by dolphinsramazing
Summary: Post- Season 10 tag. Tony's not dealing with his resignation well. Enter Ziva to help him deal with it. Tony x Ziva. Some dark themes at the beginning. Multichapter, hopefully.
1. Chapter 1

AN: So this is much more angsty than I expected, or anything I've ever written. But I promise it'll get happy, and it'll get Tiva. That is, if I can overcome my horrendous updating habits. But I will do my best!

Any comments and reviews are much appreciate.

He's forty-four years old and he's lived through a hell of a lot of days.

But never have they seemed so long that they bleed into each other. His life has disintegrated into an indistinguishable mass of mondaytuesdaywednesdaythursdayfridaysaturdaysunday . He's not accustomed to free time; he went from boarding school to OSU to Peoria to Philly to Baltimore to his former home at NCIS. He's never had these stretches of hours upon hours with no purpose but to stare at the wall, or even worse, get lost inside his own head.

At first, it was a welcome change. He was finally able to clean his apartment, stock his fridge with edible food, and catch up with some old buddies from his college days. The latter had been a wake-up call of sorts, though. All of those self-proclaimed lifetime bachelors, all with the exception of him, have wives and families and warm beds and homes filled with laughter to come home to at night.

He's different. He has a television, a DVD player, and a six pack of beer. He has a twin bed with cold sheets and a sterile apartment whose silence at night is deafening. He opens the windows as wide as they can go in vain hopes that a car rushing by or a bird twittering in a tree will allay the solitude.

For the past ten years, he's indubitably been part of a family- not a biological one, really, or a conventional one, but a support system nonetheless. Now, this resembles the time Senior abandoned him in the hotel room in Maui, only realizing his sorry existence when served with the room service bill. Abandoned. That's the key word here; he made the biggest sacrifice of all for Gibbs and has received no recompense but loneliness and a surplus of trips to the liquor store. He surrendered his beloved job, the only arena in which he's achieved lasting success, and with his badge, his sanity.

He takes another swig of beer from the bottle carelessly tossed next to him on the couch. He can't recall if it's his fourth or fifth, and then dismisses the thought- why does it matter? The burn as it coasts down his throat makes him cringe a little, but he isn't scared of pain. He beckons the pain in, because with it comes the numbness he's seeking. When he's anesthetized, he doesn't have to toss over and over in his mind all the things he's lost: the deafness incurred by entering Abby's lab, the discomfort on McGee's face when he probes him about his love life. The ringing in his ears after a well-deserved headslap, the lilt of Ducky's voice when he regales them with a story. But most of all he misses her- the clean, fresh scent of her perfume, the wave of her hair, the curve of her hip and her lip…he could go on for days. But while he undoubtedly aches for her, physically, he also misses his best friend. Now he has only the wall with which to share his secrets.

That he feels abjectly useless. He's caught bad guys his whole life, and he doesn't think he's qualified to do much else with a degree in physical education. McGee's got his techie skills, and Ziva's could do anything, really. As he said one summer in the African desert, he got his B.S. on the streets. He's too dejected to go hunting for a job he knows he's not going to get, so he passes the hours in careful meditation, watching the sun rise and set from the comfort and safety of his couch. Sometimes he pops a movie into the DVD player or rewatches a beloved episode of Magnum, P.I. And for an hour or two, he loses himself, sometimes in the plot, but mostly in the characters; he becomes, mindful of the cliché, part of their world during the time when they grace his screen. But when the credits roll, real life slaps him in the face. There are no happy endings for guys like him, guys who've hurt more people than they can count. And what Ziva said their last day at NCIS reverberates in his mind- that she's never depended on happy endings.

But she, more than anyone he's ever met, deserves one. All of the horrible, traumatic things she's endured, merely in the eight years he's known her, are more than should be experienced in one lifetime. She's a good person- smart, compassionate, empathetic, independent. He cannot bottle her essence, put it into words that adequately describe the depth and complexity of her psyche.

He just knows that he loves her, more than is healthy. And he misses her, because her absence is not just the coldness at his side where she typically stands, radiating heat and warmth and beauty. It's like there's a gaping hole inside of him, that he's an empty shell waiting for the end of days. He's fully aware he's being melodramatic and hyperbolic, but he's never been a happy drunk, but a despondent one. He's also a self-actualizing drinker- like right now, he realizes that this path he's heading down is far from a good one. The last time he drowned himself in a bottle was five years ago when Jenny died- god, has it really been that long? And now he feels guilty; he's been so self-absorbed and introspective that Jenny hasn't even crossed his mind in months. Now he pictures her in his mind's eye. Fearless, strong, driven, with that curtain of red hair settling around her shoulders, revenge burning brightly in her eyes. Much like Ziva, he discovers.

The memory of her dichotomously brings a smile to his face and a tear to his eye. He never really got to have a mother, except in those formative years that he can hardly recall, and Jenny filled that void for him, in her way. She believed in him, in his abilities, as an agent when Gibbs had turned his back on NCIS and him, leaving him in the dust once again. And she had imparted bounds of advice to him, about love, about life, and everything inherent therein. Her last tidbit of guidance was his favorite- that she knew Jeanne had hurt him and she rued involving him in her vendetta. But that he should live while he could, seize the day. And by the day, she meant Ziva, the asset she had cultivated and brought to her agency and intended for him, in more ways than one.

Not that Ziva would think highly of Jenny for promising her to Tony like chattel. But he knows that Jenny's intentions were always pure- the wish of a dying woman to bring some peace and love to the world, to people in whom she'd caused nearly irreparable pain. Little did Jenny know that merely a year from her parting words, Ziva'd be pointing a gun to his chest and Mossad would be accusing him of murder. Ah, how times change.

And how radically they've transformed in the past…what is it? Days? Weeks? Months? He can scarcely bear to count the minutes, let alone passage of time. He'd then have to acknowledge that this wasn't just a temporary solution to absolve Gibbs of guilt, but undeniably permanent. Because he couldn't handle that, and he'd probably do something rash and stupid with that knowledge, that idea, in his addled head. Because he's got his personal weapon stashed just a room away, and more and more these days he dreams of himself staring down the barrel of it. He unearths the bottle of vodka from under the couch and takes a shot. And then another. Chased by one more. And the floodgates of emotion open up.

Because despite the fact that she'd never admit it, and nor would be without coercion, he's been so enveloped in the full-time job of taking care of Ziva that he's neglected himself. And by taking care of her, he really means the strict eye he's been keeping on her mental health, as he glimpsed in her eyes the vengeance he sought that July four summers ago. He knows full well it's not salutary; it's destructive and debilitating and all-consuming, and she should learn from his experience not to go down that road. It wasn't a pretty place, his head that summer, comparable to what it is now. Except then, he had something to fight for, or at least something to go down in a fight for. Now, what does he have? An amalgamation of memories, some of which evoke joy and others which make him grit his teeth. Because what is life but a collection of memories? And suddenly, he feels even more insubstantial and transient, just a passerby in everyone else's life and barely living in his own.

He chucks the now-empty beer bottle against the wall, where it shatters, the glass strewn all over his pristinely-vacuumed rug. And the irony of it hits him in one fell swoop. Their falling-out, rectified now, stemmed, at its root, from her being alone, after he told her she wasn't alone, and now he's alone, and he's falling apart, and he only has one person he can call. Clumsily, he stumbles to the bedside table on which the phone lays; usually, he can handle his liquor quite well, but the lethal mix of anger running through his veins mixed with the alcohol does not bode well for his coordination. With loose fingers and loose lips, he dials the number he knows by heart.

He lied before, about the number of days since he's resigned. He lies to himself quite often, in fact, because sometimes a carefully crafted lie is easier and happier to believe than the bare-boned truth. It's been seventeen days and sixteen hours since he's last heard his partner's voice or seen her smile.

So when he hears a crisp and inquiring "hello?" on the other end of the telephone, it brings to his face the first genuine smile in seventeen days and sixteen hours.

"''ello Ziva," he grunts, his head suddenly spinning from all the alcohol he's ingested. Or maybe it's just the guilt.

"Tony?" she questions, and he can hear the worry seeping in the edges of her voice. He nearly hangs up; he doesn't want her pity. They are much alike in that respect. They are both too strong and independent of people to allow pity from their partner.

"Ya, um, I know it's been a while, but um, if" maybe you could come over here," he rambles, nearly unaware of what he's saying.

"Tony," she puts to him concernedly, "are you alright?" The panic stretched taut across her tenses her voice, augments her accent.

"No, "he admits, the first honest thing he's said in weeks. And the hardest part is yet to come. "I need you, Ziva." And that's all it takes. He can hear the rustling of her keys that says she's on her way.


	2. Chapter 2

As usual, I preface this with an apology. Sometimes life (prom, graduation, orientation…) gets in the way. But I hope you enjoy, and it's a bit longer to make up for the time lapse.

Again, any feedback is much appreciated!

She nearly neglects to set the alarm in her extreme haste. She is always particularly vigilant about security, a relic from her Mossad days. Because even though she is a skilled, lethal fighter, this is still America, where women are targeted in the streets simply for their gender. But she is not attempting to make a political statement with her hyperawareness. She is simply trying to exercise a modicum of control over some aspect of her life. She does not deny that her type-A personality often borders on control…geek, but she thinks she has due reason. Nothing in her life has ever lasted, and she desperately seeks that permanency. Her entire biological family has been torn from her with bullets and bombs and the slow ravages of cancer. And now her work family, the people that she has grown to love and respect beyond all others, is gone from her as well.

Of course, they are not absent in the same immutable way that Eli and Rivka and Tali and Ari are, but she aches for them with the same fervor. The music of Abby's laugh, the glint in McGee's eyes when he makes a break in a case, the pregnant pause after one of Jimmy's awkward stories, the crinkle of the laugh lines around Gibbs's mouth, and Tony. She misses her raggedy man the most. No one has ever exacted such a strong effect on her in her thirty-three years, the pull both physical and emotional. The mere specter of his presence has a calming effect on her. For the entire travesty of her father's death and the aftermath, he had been so remarkably supportive, never pushing her boundaries but respecting her space, that it is unbelievable to fathom that Michael could have happened at all. It was a different man, a harder one, one less in touch with himself, that put three bullets through the chest of her lover, and she is a different woman than the one who pinned him to the ground and stood on the tarmac, watching the love of her life fly away.

And that is why she is wracked with such anxiety and unease about the well-being of her partner. The speedometer of her Mini Cooper sways between sixty-five and seventy as she tries to recall the particular location of his apartment. During her last sojourn there, she was dichotomously in a fog and sharply focused on the prospect of revenge. Nevertheless, she did not pay particular attention to the lefts and rights that separate their dwellings and their lives.

So now her eyes dart up and down streets, searching for familiar signs and signals that tell her her partner's abode is near. Her record number of u-turns is matched by a plethora of blown stop signs and accelerations at yellow lights. Getting a ticket is in the back of her mind; she knows her partner too well not to be on extremely high alert. He, like her, has never been the type to seek help. He is too proud, almost bordering on vain. And her heart was filled with ice when she heard his words running together and the undercurrent of despondency and desperation permeating his tone. She is all too familiar with his proclivity for drink when he faces adversity.

No, that is not the proper way to put it. He is the strongest man she has ever met, and he has been abandoned and neglected and slighted more times than she can count, and too often the hand was hers. But it is when all that he carries weighs too heavily on his conscience that he succumbs to temptation. And he falls hard and fast; it is part of who he is. He contributes 110% to everything he does: good, bad, or indifferent. So she is frightened to see what she will discover upon entering Tony's home. She has always been very capable of being strong to counteract others' weaknesses, and she is indubitably aware that he has been her support more times than she can count or repay him for. But, embarrassing as it is, she is still reeling from her father's death and the sleepless nights and the regret of sleeping with Adam and leaving Tony out and even killing Bodnar. She does not know if she can handle Tony, but she is certainly going to do her absolute best to help him exorcise whatever demons are plaguing him. That is what you do for the one you love.

Making the final turn on the street she is fairly certain is his, she coasts into a spot in the parking garage. She cognizantly ignores the fact that her car is quite crooked and juts over the line. She jumps out of her car as she locks and closes the door in one fell swoop, jogging briskly to the front of the building. Vigorously, she repeatedly slams on the button for his apartment, hoping that he is still in functioning enough shape to allow her entrance.

She releases a breath she was unaware she was holding as the characteristic buzz emits from the intercom. Disregarding the inquisitive looks of Tony's neighbors, she weaves through hallways and slow-paced obstacles to arrive at his door. She never thought herself to be the type of woman who casts aside whatever she is doing at a man's behest. She does not consider herself to fulfill any stereotype of the fairer sex at all; the recollection of their conversation to that effect in their German hotel room brings a smile to her face. Is she the domestic type to hang up her man's clothes? After all, she does long, deeper and harder than anyone could believe, for a husband and a family and a neatly-manicured house in the suburbs. A better question might be if Tony is her man. She certainly exercises a possession of sorts over him; she is dismayed and disappointed when he pays attention to other girls, petty as that may seem for a woman of her various talents. But while she knows intrinsically that she is worth quite a lot, capable of a multitude of tasks, it sometimes comforts her to be validated. Man or woman, young or old, it is a measure of the human condition to be wanted.

And she has never felt more desired, scars and all, than when her partner whirled her around the dance floor in Berlin as they stared into each other's eyes. Partner. That word strikes at something deep now, now that he is no longer her colleague, her work partner, that comfortable reality forcibly taken from that. She discovers that she is quite angry at Gibbs for that; he proclaimed so justly that of course he would take the fall for his team. It would be natural, much like a father being held responsible for the actions of his children. But instead, he cowered. He hid behind quick words and even quicker lawyers while he was whisked away for some covert mission to which none of them were privy, while they laid down their badges for his sake.

But that does not matter now. It is time for her to heal Tony's ills, however deeply seated they may be. He has been her everything, her steady rock in a tumultuous ocean these past few months, and she will repay him, though it is much more complicated than that. She _wants_ to help him, says the pull in her chest that must be the tug of her heart. Because they are so inextricably tied to each other that his pain, thus far even unseen, causes its mirror in her. And that is how she knows she loves him, more deeply, more basely than any other love she has had, familial or otherwise. He is, quite plainly, the other half of her that she did not know existed, as much as she despises sappy metaphors of that type. But she does not know how she has survived these seventeen days without him, weak as that may sound. She has simply become accustomed to him as _in her life_, day in and day out, for better or for worse. She feels lost without NCIS, yes, without the job as an agent that she has come to love more than any other, but it is the lack of _him_ that truly leaves her feeling like a ship out in the middle of the ocean, with no course or direction. She is growing tired of these oceanic metaphors and raps hard three times on the wood of the door.

"Tony," she calls out strongly.

His groan and slow footsteps are audible as he drags himself to the door. She is relieved that at least he is conscious; it has been instilled in her to anticipate the worst. But her fears are not entirely assuaged; she knows that, quite often, the worst enemy is the mind, not the body. She learned that all too quickly during her summer in Somalia, that atrocity she refuses to discuss, even today.

He wrenches the door open, and she cannot help but laugh as she sees the sloppy grin plastered on his face. Seeing him happy causes her to be happy; they are that closely attuned to each other's emotions. But her spirits drop as she sees the signs that act directly to the contrary: the various empty bottles strewn about the room, the lines in his forehead that weren't there seventeen days ago, the muss of his hair, the way the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. The last instills the most fear in her; she is taken aback by the haunted look in his eyes. He looks older. Much older, and it reminds her too much of the summer they were split apart by Vance's command- he to his duties as Agent Afloat and she to Mossad and into Michael's arms.

"Hey, Ziva," he says plaintively. In an instant, she can pinpoint the self-deprecation in his voice, that which always proves to be a danger. An expectant pause ensues as the brilliant chatterbox is reduced to silence, merely keeping his cloudy eyes trained on his partner.

"How are you?" she inquires cautiously.

His eyes narrow visibly as he chuckles softly. "Do you want the truth?"

The intensity of her glare is an immediate answer. "To be honest, Ziva, I suck. This sucks. I thought we were a family, ya know? I figured we'd at least stay in touch, and I guess that's kinda my fault for not reaching out to anyone. But it was like I wanna talk to everyone but I also don't wanna think about NCIS because then I'll miss it. Because I don't know what the hell else to do with my life. I'm just a washed up cop who doesn't know anything but the streets and I can't start again. I can't pretend to be buddies with idiot beat cops, twenty year olds who think they own this goddamn city. I should've taken that job in Rota when Jenny offered it to me. It would've saved me a lot of pain."

Her face falls. God, Rota. He was offered that job a lifetime ago, when their relationship was nothing but space invasion and sexual banter. He truly wishes that they had not progressed beyond that point? That is like a knife in the back.

He immediately realizes his mistake. "I'm sorry, Ziva. I didn't mean you. You're the one good thing I had, well have, I guess? If it wasn't for that damn job, Ziva, I could've started loving you properly a long time ago. But you don't want me now. You deserve so much better. I'm sorry I asked you to come here, Ziva. I just didn't know who else to call. But you should, you should leave now."

She has stopped listening, instead fixating on one small thing he said. _But he is drunk_, she thinks_, and so you cannot take anything he says at face value. _But it has been eight years, and the elephant has beenin the room so long it should apply for permanent residency. It is time.

"Loving me?" she asks quietly, her heart beating loudly in her chest. She knows it is stupid; this is Tony. He is her best friend, and she has not been nervous around him in years. Not since she first started at NCIS and he was the great American man and her bravado masked someone who did not think she could do a job that did not involve killing people.

"Yeah, Ziva. Loving you. I've loved you for god knows how long, and I'm done denying it. I'm sure you don't feel the same way, but I get it. I'm used to it. Just let me down gently if you can," he ends with a depressing smile.

She cannot conceal the beaming grin on her face. He loves her; she loves him. What can stand in the way now?

But of course, the cosmos are never in their favor; a knock sounds at the door. "FBI," she hears. "Open up!" She glimpses the look of puzzlement on her partner's face; all they know is that a nighttime visit from the FBI is never a good thing. But not cooperating would make it even worse, and so she pulls the door open.

"Special Agent Jones, FBI. Anthony DiNozzo, you're under arrest for treason." She cannot do anything but stand idly by Tony is dragged away in handcuffs. The most frightening part is the blank expression on his face as the door slams in her face.


End file.
